


that means it's noon, that means we're inconsolable

by ghostinghearts



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, richard siken's poetry will be the death of me, sad!harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinghearts/pseuds/ghostinghearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Harry wants. He wants so much he burns red with it, his fingertips tremble all the time.</p><p>(Or what happens when I read too much Richard Siken for my own good.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	that means it's noon, that means we're inconsolable

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first fic I had ever actually finished, so please be kind. (Written a while ago, but I decided to post it here.) Lines of poetry come from Richard Siken's poem, "Scheherazade." (Which, if you haven't read any of his work: ouch.)

1.

The thing is, it doesn't start off right.

It starts off with 3 AM drunk, head dizzy with other people's legs and arms and lips and everything feels red hot and ready to explode. It begins with hotel shadows tracing figurines onto Louis' skin and the smell of alcohol in the air. So when Harry kisses him, lips and fingers fumbling in the dark, Harry thinks he'll explode.

 

The thing is, it doesn't end right, either. Not when Louis gasps back at him, eyes dark with lust and shirt hanging off his collarbones. Not with this alcohol bravery pulsing through Harry's veins, making everything jumbled. So Harry stops, just crashes. Makes an excuse. Laughs it off and tries to forget how Louis felt underneath him. How he could feel his heart beating with something unnameable. How the air paused right before their lips met.

(That doesn't feel right either, but it's the best he can do.)

2.

 

But something in the air's changed. Harry wakes up after noon, feeling disoriented and sticky with sweat and the taste of vodka in his mouth. When Harry stands in the shower he almost doesn't want to be clean. It means he can't have this courage forever. It means he has to wake up.

But the look on Louis' face is worse. It spells out that last night was a mistake. It spells out confusion. And when Louis' refuses to look him in the eye, that's when it stings. It feels like the opposite of butterflies in his stomach, it feels like stones, the immediate weight of everything crashing down into words and words aren't even words anymore and Harry doesn't even have a name for this.

Harry tries to shove it back, though. Because this feels like his fault, this feels like every dumb, impulsive thing Harry's ever done except with a big You Fucked It Up Big Time stamp labeled over the thing that is Louis-and-Harry. The Louis-and-Harry thing that worked before, this weird combination of things best friends probably didn't do mixed in with all the normal things. Sometimes, Harry thinks that it's the only thing that feels right.

Harry tries to shove it back, back to the bottom of his brain where everything feels numbed out, but it doesn't work. It comes seeping through his lungs, his blood, his bones. So Harry does. Harry gets shit-faced drunk and makes out with three different people in the bathroom stall of some club, tongue soaked in alcohol, hands pressing, teeth knocking until Harry can't breathe anymore. But it feels wrong, it didn't start off right, it's ending wrong because these hands aren't Louis' and it isn't Louis humming into his neck in a bathroom stall. Harry thinks it would be even almost beautiful like this if it were Louis. It'd be beautiful anywhere.

(And when Harry stumbles in a hotel room that always familiar but not, blood-drunk and spinning, he can't read Louis' face.)

And Harry wants. He wants so much he burns red with it, his fingertips tremble all the time. He steals Zayn's cigarettes and holds them in between his fingertips. He never lights them, though. It feels like a metaphor, a reverse he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not. Unlit cigarette and he's not brave enough. Lit cigarette and he is.

(His lungs burn anyway.)

 

3\. 

It takes weeks for Louis to look at him the same again, for the awkwardness to fade into a hum and whisper of pain. Harry thinks too much, over analyzing every touch and look from Louis. He holds onto Louis' fingers gripping his wrist far after they're gone. Ghosting. They're ghosting in half-ways, in moments, Harry thinks.

It takes Liam knocking on his hotel door at 2 AM for Harry to feel a little braver again. It takes Harry's unfolding, unwinding in front of Liam for it to register. It's the seriousness and bags of worry under Liam's eyes.

(Because maybe this has been affecting more than just Harry. Maybe he's been too caught up to notice. Maybe this game of he-loves-me-not ties strings to connect all five of them, more than unlit cigarettes and empty beer bottles.)

Harry buys a book of poems, Crush, it's called, (how appropriate), and reads it when the empty spaces feel lonelier than ever. He reads it twice, three, four times underneath the low light of the tour bus and glowing mornings when he can't sleep. It feels all too real to Harry, the prayer for which no words exist.

(That means it's noon, that means we're inconsolable.)

4\. 

 

It takes another two weeks for Harry to place the poem on Louis' pillow, stained and soft with use. This feels like Harry's giving Louis a bit of his heart (not the whole thing, because the Whole Thing is Louis Louis Louis) and it's terrifying.

(You're in the hallway. Open the door again. Open the door.)

When he hears a knock at his door, soft and hesitant, Harry knows. He knows when he opens the door and looks at Louis, properly, for the first time in months, really. Harry still can't read him, this is not Mischievous Louis or Silly Louis or Cheeky Louis. This Louis looks tired. Worn.

He's holding what looks like the poem. He's holding it tight, actually, and Harry exhales.

(Louis moves forward, and everything feels so slow, watery and half-way tangible. They're ghosting again. This is the opposite of before. Is this real? Is this real? Is this real?)

And then Louis is in front of him. Harry can see the flecks in his eyes, pupils dilated. He heard somewhere that this means Want, does this mean it's real? Is this real? Is this real?

And then they kiss. It's for real this time, it's real it's real it's real. Harry is bursting (in all the good ways) and Louis is humming into his ear and hands are everywhere and when they break apart the world is in forward motion again. And Harry doesn't want to talk, doesn't want to find a way to ruin This, whatever This is. He feels a little stuck, a little bewildered. But then Louis smiles, his hands are shaking (were they shaking the whole time?) and he's laughing breathlessly.

It's only after tangled limbs and lips bitten red that Harry finds the poem on the floor. And when he sees it, sees the red underline, it feels right this time.

(And you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for.)


End file.
